


The One with the Knife-Thrower

by papersurrous



Series: Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You" [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: 50 Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You", Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Enemies to Friends to ... Something, Gen, M/M, Massage, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersurrous/pseuds/papersurrous
Summary: It's just something about you.—(Diego/Reader one shots, some related, some not. All based on the 50 Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You" prompt list by @50-item-writing-prompts on Tumblr.)
Relationships: Diego Hargreeves/Reader
Series: Wordless Ways to Say "I Love You" [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878406
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	The One with the Knife-Thrower

**Author's Note:**

> if you want, check out my tumblr [@paperpocalypse](https://paperpocalypse.tumblr.com/)!

“Why the hell are you here?”

“Thought I’d drop by for a visit.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

You look at the knife and then at him, and your lips twitch. Whitney Houston – hell, you used to never shut up about her – sings from the unfamiliar record player on his dresser; Diego glances at it with narrowed eyes. So _that’s_ where the music was coming from. You must have brought it with you. Why? So that he knows that it was you who broke into his room?

 _I know that album_ , he thinks bitterly, keeping the knife firmly in line with your face. It’s your favorite.

“Aw, c’mon, Diego.” You stand up, raising one hand in surrender while the other reaches for the knife in your shoulder. It makes a dry, scraping sound as you pull it out, like a spade leaving a sandpile, and you toss it onto the desk nearby. “Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me at least a little bit. It’s been eight years.”

Yeah, eight _years_. Fuck you. Diego keeps his breathing steady, ignoring the twinge in his side and the thumping in his chest as he makes his way down the stairs. “And whose fault is that?” he says.

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. You both know the answer, and he expects you to defend yourself with the same kind of shit you pulled when you were part of the academy. _Go ahead_ , he thinks. Act like nothing’s wrong. Blame your uncle’s crackpot ideas.

Leave without warning. Who gives a shit anymore?

But you do none of those things. Instead, your gaze flicks away from the quiet venom in his voice, and you stay silent for a moment. His frown deepens.

“I was scared,” you eventually reply. “Ben died and I got scared, okay? So when Uncle said it was a sign we had to leave, I convinced myself that he was right again.” Your hands clasp behind your back, a familiar gesture that makes him think of times long past, and it gets to him more than he would like to show. “I’m sorry for not saying goodbye.”

You’re sorry. Diego holds your gaze for a moment longer, jaw tight, then lowers his knife. He thinks of the day he realized you weren’t coming back. Then he thinks of Ben’s funeral, and he puts his knife away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, less biting this time.

You smile derisively, but he can see the relief in it as well. “Uncle didn’t let me. You know how he was.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh.” He pauses in the middle of removing his tactical harness to glance at you. “… My condolences.”

You shrug. “It’s fine. I didn’t realize how much of a controlling bastard he was until he kicked the bucket,” you mutter, and he hears the record player stop as you lift the needle and turn it off. “And now I’m here.”

This time, Diego _really_ pauses. The way you say it sounds like – “What, you’re moving back here or something?”

“Yep.” You lift your hands in a celebratory gesture. “Surprise.”

—

And just like that, you’re back in Diego’s life like you had never left.

It’s ridiculous, really, how quickly you slip into the cracks and crevices of his routine again. What’s worse, it feels _natural_. So he resists it at first – takes the back door when you have a match at the gym, throws his knives through the crack in the door whenever he comes back from patrol and hears a record playing. Talks to you with clipped tones and cold words.

But … he never tells you to leave. And you keep visiting. And by the time January rolls by, he realizes that the bitterness he’s tried to hold onto has become something else.

“Don’t you have a shift in a few hours?”

You’re nodding along to yet another Whitney vinyl when he walks in, lounging in the beat-up chair between his dresser and the desk with a newspaper in your lap. At the mention of work, you just sink deeper into the cushions and shrug.

“Yep,” you say.

The boiler room is a lot warmer than outside. He can already feel himself start to sweat. Diego removes his patrol gear and reaches back to pull one of his sweaters off, and his muscles ache in response. Goddamn it. It’s been like that the whole day, after that match with Sinclair the night before. He peels off the grimy article of clothing and rolls his shoulders.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that pulling all-nighters isn’t healthy?” He tosses his sweater aside and heads to his bed, falling back onto the mattress with a grunt.

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. Vigilante.” The chair squeaks, and he turns his head to see you approaching the bed. “Here, turn over.”

“Why?” Nevertheless, he does as you say.

“So I can massage your back.” You usher him closer to the wall and put one knee on the edge of the bed, hoisting yourself onto the mattress. He tenses when you lean over and press your hands into his shoulder blades. “Shit, man, I’m not gonna kill you. Relax.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he mutters, then hisses when you knead a particularly sore muscle. _That_ felt good.

You chuckle and move downwards. “Hey, I’d get a few hits in,” you retort as you work. “But you always were the better fighter, huh?”

“I had to be –” Your knuckles dig into his lower back – “ _unf_. God. Not everyone’s a human punching bag like you, [Y/n].”

“The best offense is a good defense.”

“It’s ‘the best _defense_ is a good _offense_.’”

“Your dad told you that, right? I remember.”

… Dad _did_ tell him that. He’d forgotten. Diego scowls and doesn’t reply.

You put your whole weight into the base of your palms, swinging one leg over his lower back to kneel above him. “Uncle always told me the other one because of my powers. Guess we grew up with different philosophies.”

“Yeah, well, both of us got screwed over either way.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” His irritation fades a little bit when your voice softens.

You spend a few more minutes massaging his back. Diego closes his eyes and keeps his mouth shut, save for a relieved exhale here and there, listening to the ancient hum of the boiler and the upbeat tune of the next song on your record. He wonders how many times you’ve done this.

He wonders who you may have done it for.

But before he can think about it too much, the record player sputters, and whatever atmosphere that had begun blooming as soon as you had touched him disappears.

“Ah, shit,” you say wryly, moving off him. Diego groans as he props himself up onto his elbows, watching you turn the record player off. The sudden absence of music brings a frown to his lips. “I guess that’s a sign I should get going.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in signs.”

His words come out in a rasp – and in the midst of sliding the record back into its sleeve, you stop, a strange expression flitting across your face. “Shit, you’re right,” you remark after a second, perplexed. Then you chuckle. “I guess that was my uncle talking.”

Ignore the bastard, then. Diego shifts slowly, unwillingly, into a sitting position, and draws his eyes over the map of your face. You stare back. The record fits snugly underneath your arm. The boiler hums.

“What?”

He doesn’t think about it for another second.

“You can stay,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across your face, and Diego commits it to memory.

“If you insist.”


End file.
